Palatial Proportions
by M. of the Mountains
Summary: When Sherlock meets his new neighbor, he gets a jolt back to his past, and must retreat to his mind palace to recover the truth behind his family secrets. Who will save him from his brother's revenge? The middle Holmes returns (OC). AN: I know, short chapters right now... but they'll only be getting longer! Enjoy. Fam!Lock (is that a thing? Now it is!) Possible future Teen!Lock
1. The Known Neighbour

"Sherlock?" John Watson walked into his living room expecting murderers or kidnappers, only to find his ex flat-mate flopped on the green sofa, presumably bored. Sherlock groaned in response.

"What, John?" His curly hair flipped in front of his eyes as he tilted his head to examine- no, deduce- the man in front of him. "Oh."

"The shots, Sherlock?" John raised his brows, crossing his arms impatiently. It was such a John-like expression that Sherlock knew exactly what John was thinking.

"Bored…" he smirked at his friend, knowingly.

"Well- but- you've already done that!" John's put-together façade vanished in an instant, replaced by the oh-so-familiar face of irritation. "Did our smiling yellow friend really need a companion?"

"He was bored, too." Sherlock glanced down at the can of purple paint in his left hand, grimaced, and returned his gaze to John's face. "Problem?"

"I… you can't…"

"Well, John? I think you'll find that I just did. If you intend to suggest that Mrs. Hudson will be angry, please consider the fact that this has already crossed my mind." John snorted in response, words failing him as they so often did.

"Nope," John chuckled. "I thought I'd tell you that your neighbor doesn't appreciate the noise." Stunned, Sherlock's eyes widened.

"We have neighbors, now? Oh, how exciting," he continued with a devilish grin. "We'll have to welcome them in properly." With that, he hopped off the sofa in one fluid motion, feet landing squarely on the floor.

"No. No. Sherlock, you do not need to welcome them. I'm not sure what a welcome even means for you, but you cannot disturb them any more than you already have…"

"And why," the consulting detective gave John the ridiculously over-exaggerated grin that he usually saved for boring clients. "Not?"

"Because…" John's upper lip twitched, visible at last thanks to Sherlock's moustache advice. Caught up in his pride at the removal of the hideous facial hair, Sherlock failed to notice the lengthy shadow stepping into the flat from the stairwell.

"Hello, brother mine."


	2. Hello, Holbrook

"Holbrook." Sherlock's expression changed to one of disbelief for a moment, before reverting back to the mask he reserved for Mycroft. "What a surprise."

"This isn't your brother, so who is it, Sherlock? Another friend?"

"I don't have friends, remember. Really, John, you don't see it?" John sighed.

"See what?"

"I would think it'd be fairly obvious, even to you… the suit, John, the suit!" Sherlock threw up his arms, startling his best friend. With a wild expression that John knew could only mean trouble, the world's only consulting detective jumped onto the sofa cushion, gaining several feet in height.

"What does that even mean, Sherlock?"

"Look at the suit. Really look at it. Do you see the creases? You should, because you've been noticing creases since our friend Billy deduced you. Now. Where are the creases? The suit is perfectly ironed, except in one place: the sleeve. Why the sleeve? Nicotine habit, patches, to be exact. Once a smoker, as the slightly rasping voice tells us. But he's stopped. Moved on the patches, perhaps because of the horrors of smoking in London- or he's in hiding and can't be caught. His suit is old, but clearly once fashionable, and according to the silhouette, I'd say its of London origin. Twenty years old, at least. Now, look at his face. High cheekbones, middling hairline. Slight curls, but beginning to straighten with age. He examined the room completely in the seconds he's been here, so analytically minded. Possibly a mathematician, more likely a writer- the stiff fingers, and statistically more likely. Too much time at the computer. Conclusion: recently returned to London after a long time away, in hiding because of something he wrote, but came to Baker Street to live. Disappeared twenty years ago, but comes back now. Why? Neighbor to 221B, so if past experience is anything to go on, either an assassin or curious. The latter, in this case. My, the years have treated you well, brother dear." Sherlock jumped his feet around to face his brother, smirking.

"Wait, but… there's another one of you?" John's eyebrows rose higher than Sherlock had thought possible.

"Do lower your brows, John. Unless you want to look more incredulous than you already do."

"But…"

"Hello, Doctor Watson. I don't believe we've been introduced…" The man previously in shadow stepped further into the room, giving John a terrible fright. His face seemed like a mix of Mycroft's and Sherlock's, and his hair was indeed a wavy version of Sherlock's curls. With blue eyes that stunned, and a wide mouth, the man seemed ageless, but the creases around his eyes showed that he must have been over 40, at least. As a shocked John realized, there was no way around it: another Holmes brother stood in his former flat.

"Spare us, Holbrook," Sherlock sighed, his mouth pressed thin. "I don't do introductions."

"You really should learn, my dear brother."

"Nope," Sherlock answered cheerfully, popping the 'p'. "No, thanks!" Holbrook frowned. And Sherlock's smile broadened. "So good to see you, Holbrook, and so nice of you to pop by… laters!" And the detective flopped back onto the sofa, closing his eyes.

"Sherlock. I'm not here to deal with your childish games."

"Hm." Sherlock refused to lift his eyelids. "That's what Mycroft said." John watched in shocked silence as his friend ignored yet another brother.

"Mycroft, dear brother, is why I'm here," Holbrook whispered dramatically. "Now, cease your ridiculous toying, and listen."


	3. The Middle One

Sherlock's older brother grimaced at him threateningly. "Will you please just hear me out?"

"And why would I do that?" The detective made certain to stress the ridiculousness of such an idea. "20 years is a long time, brother mine."

"Come now, Sherlock…" The elder refused to give in, one hand shoving itself into a sleek trouser pocket. "Do you prefer Mycroft, now?"

"He's a rubbish big brother," Sherlock sighed, finally opening his eyes, letting his lips twitch into a slight smile. "But so are you."

"What did I do? He sold my secrets and left me in one of his basements. Not my fault, Sherlock. Mycroft is a nuisance."

"That's what Mummy says," the younger replied- suddenly sitting upright, back as rigid as a nail. "Wait... Wait, Holbrook. Repeat, please." Holbrook frowned, used to his brother's antics from their childhood.

"He sold my secrets and left me in one of his basements. Not my fault." To Sherlock's surprise, Holbrook didn't truly sound bitter.

"Why no bitterness?" The detective muttered to himself, placing his hands in the familiar thinking position, steepled before his eyes. "20 years, presumably difficult… but not bitter." Holbrook knew that expression, and was expecting the sudden twist of Sherlock's head. He was not, however, anticipating the loathing that filled his younger brother's icy eyes.

"Did you plan it?" To John's watching gaze, Sherlock seemed instantly different, not the man he knew, but a child noticing his elder brothers' deceit. "Were you in it together?" Holbrook sighed, seeing the curly-haired, fearful-but-brilliant Sherlock of twenty years prior.

"You know the answer to that," the man replied, as he rubbed his nose in discomfort. And, as he expected, the ticking bomb that was his brother exploded.

"Leave, dear Holbrook. Or I'll call the Prime Minister and let him know what the elder Holmes brothers have been up to." Sherlock was close to Holbrook in milliseconds, before John even noticed what was happening. Realizing that he hadn't said anything in a rather long time, John finally lowered his brows to tell Sherlock off, but could only watch as the latter stepped into Holbrook's personal space.

"Sherlock!" Finally gaining the strength of mind to say something, John called his friend's name warningly.

"John, you don't know how long I've been waiting for this man," Sherlock answered, standing mere inches from his brother.

"Twenty years, yeah?" John raised his brows yet again. "I don't understand, Sherlock."

"As much as I hate to quote Magnusson, he's right…" Sherlock grimaced, flat-faced. "You really ought to put that on a t-shirt."

"Shut it," John muttered. "Your brother?"

"Hello again," Holbrook grinned, genuinely, it seemed. "Pleasure to meet you, John. I've heard ever so much about you." With that, Sherlock seemed to lose it again. With little patience, he copied the move he had pulled on Mycroft months earlier. Twisting his brother's arm behind his back, the detective nearly snarled with frustration. To his interest, Holbrook showed no sign of pain, unlike Mycroft. Perhaps he had been right all along: the British Government was truly slipping. And no amount of exercise would keep him from Sherlock's grasp when they met next. For the youngest Holmes was filled with righteous anger for the lies of the past, and Sherlock Holmes never gave up on a case- especially not his own.

"Stay out of my life, brother dear… we may be neighbours- for now. But that doesn't mean you're forgiven." John sighed, recognizing the familiar pattern. Sherlock's melodramatic antics could be exhausting, but this time it almost seemed like the consulting detective had no control over his anger. Unusual.

"Well enough," Holbrook smiled tightly, much like Mycroft. "I'll catch you later, then. Perhaps after you've eaten some of the biscuits I left with your friend." Sherlock glanced at John, frowning. Hesitantly, the doctor nodded, meeting Sherlock's eyes with caution, then glancing back to Holbrook. "And in case you were wondering, John- I'm the middle one." Nodding at John over Sherlock's shoulder, and giving his brother one last, searching look, Holbrook departed; behind him, John could only stare. How alike the Holmes brothers were! And how stubborn they all could be.


	4. Sherlock the Storyteller

**AN: So, I really like flashbacks. They're one of my favorite writing tools. Thus, this story is going to have some… perhaps in this chapter, if the characters decide to make that happen. We're also going to be heading into Sherlock's mind palace soon, and quite frequently; the Method of Loci has always fascinated me, and since I have a mind palace myself, I understand how they work, so this story will be going deep into the realm of Sherlock's brain. Don't feel obliged to review or follow, but that's always deeply appreciated! xx**

* * *

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. His brothers always knew how to upset him, even if he tried to hide his emotions- and usually succeeded. Seeing Holbrook, though, had shaken his calm, and the detective was at a loss to determine just why the middle Holmes had returned, and to Baker Street of all places. In fact, Sherlock could barely understand where Holbrook now lived- in a flat above that diner next door, he supposed. But why?

"John," Sherlock intoned, keeping his eyes closed to contain his confusion. "You have questions."

"Yeah, I do," his friend acknowledged. "And you're going to answer them. But, first… call Mary." Sherlock paused in his thoughts, startled. He tilted his head, eyes still shut.

"Why Mary?" John smiled, his soldier's stiffness tightening his upper lip.

"Because she's going to find this hilarious."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, John was seated in his chair, Mary in Sherlock's, and Sherlock on the sofa, looking profoundly uncomfortable.

"Well, Sherlock?" Mary's eyes twinkled. "I heard something about an angry outburst."

"My brother," Sherlock grumbled. He was still moping about John's demand that Mary be involved. As much as he liked her- perhaps because of it- he didn't want her knowing about his family secrets. Even if she had secrets of her own.

"Not as I saw it," John chuckled, shaking his head. "Sherlock had the angry outburst, and his brother politely left."

"Mycroft, polite?" At Mary's querying look, Sherlock couldn't help but laugh, throwing back his head to release the deep tones of his amusement. "Sorry, Sherlock, but that's rather unusual…"

"Not Mycroft." John smirked, raising his brows at his wife. Sherlock sighed, noting that John really needed to control his eyebrow movement. "Another brother."

"What?" Mary gaped at him, eyes widening. "Poor Sherlock. Is he just like Mycroft?"

"Close enough," Sherlock chuckled. "And as I'm sure John is wondering about, I'm rather bothered by both of them at the moment." John coughed, choking down laughter.

"Rather bothered, Sherlock? You pulled the same move on… Holbrook… that you did on Mycroft when you were high."

"Hm." The detective refused to dignify that with a response, and, seeing a dangerous glint in his eyes, Mary grimaced.

"Come on, boys, let's keep it together. What happened with your… brothers, Sherlock?" He snorted, exhaling sharply.

"You want to hear the story?" John stared at Sherlock for a moment before responding.

"Sherlock turned storyteller? This I must see." With a glance at his wife, the doctor settled himself further into the familiar chair, and his eyes crinkled with amusement.

"Fine," Sherlock ventured. "But it isn't very obvious."

"Oh, we'll understand," Mary insisted, realizing Sherlock's point almost immediately. "Just tell us everything." Steepling his hands, Sherlock began.

"Twenty years ago, my brothers and I were moderately close. Rather, Holbrook and I were close. Mycroft was Mycroft, our annoying, rotten big brother. Holbrook is three years older than myself, so we were naturally amiable- although he sometimes teased me, he never taunted me beyond reason growing up, so when I was 17 and he 20, we were still on friendly terms." Sherlock grimaced. "Mycroft, on the other hand, has always been dreadful."

"Why haven't we heard of Holbrook, then?" Mary interjected, confused. "If you actually got along."

"Things got complicated," Sherlock retorted. "Much too complicated." He leaned back into the sofa, releasing his stiffened spine. "Mycroft was rising in the government, although he only occupied a supposedly minor position. So, he became involved in bigger and bigger projects- anti-terrorism. With his substantial ego, he easily convinced the higher-ups that he deserved a chance… and they gave it to him. There was an assignment, a secret protection against domestic terrorism. He was doing well… too well. So, an enemy got Holbrook involved. Mycroft was overprotective, even then, and his enemies assumed that kidnapping his little brother would force him to acquiesce to their demands."

"Did he?" John, engaged in Sherlock's story, queried.

"No." Sherlock curled his upper lip in a snarl. "He hardened himself, and let them take Holbrook away. Mycroft completed his mission, rose in power, and eventually became the British Government, while Holbrook remained in his enemies custody, incapable of saving himself- then died."

"But he's here," Mary challenged. "How does that make sense?"

"Obvious, really…" Sherlock's expression changed to one of bitter amusement. "He didn't die."

"So…"

"Mycroft saved him. But no one ever told me."

"Sherlock, then how do you know what happened?" The detective narrowed his eyes, angry.

"What else? Holbrook is here, so he must be alive. He was in an impossible situation, so Mycroft must have helped him. But I never knew, so they must have been in it together. Simple, really. And quite elegant. But unforgivable."

"Is that sentiment, Sherlock?" Mary teased, recognizing his callously caring tone.

"Yep," he sighed, popping the word in his mouth. "Pity."


End file.
